


i do it like it's my profession

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Massage, Roommates, because i so love the unnecessary touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 19:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7004059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why do I feel like I’m late for some kind of exam?" she asks suspiciously, slowly lowering herself down onto the other end of the couch.</p>
<p>He holds up a small tin of all-purpose medicated ointment. "Since you refuse to see a doctor, like a normal person."</p>
<p>"What for? I already have someone who thinks they know better," she retorts, but there’s no bite to her teasing grin. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or, the one where Bellamy insists on giving Clarke a massage and instantly regrets his entire life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i do it like it's my profession

**Author's Note:**

> here, have another oneshot that has nothing to do with my multiple WIPs!
> 
> all kidding aside, this is inspired by my own sudden neck strain/sprain idek what it was but it happened yesterday and it flipping H U R T S so yay!
> 
> (title from 'Rocket' by Beyoncé, which was in my head the entire time i was writing this)

 

 

 

 

Bellamy looks up when he hears footsteps enter the kitchen, craning his neck over his shoulder to keep the large pot in his hands under the running tap.

 

“Hey, I got started on—“ He pauses to do a double take at the wince on Clarke’s face as she gingerly removes her bag and jacket from her shoulders. “You okay?”

 

She grimaces, slowly working her arm out of her jacket sleeve. “Yeah, just— I think I pulled something in my neck. Or my shoulder.” She automatically lifts a hand to brush her windswept waves out of her face, a small, pained gasp escaping her lips at the motion. “Or my _spine_. I don’t know.”

 

“So much for pre-med,” he says, already setting the pot down to cross the kitchen, frowning in concern. “When was this?”

 

“This morning,” she says as his hands come up to rest lightly on her arms, gently prompting her to turn her back toward him. “I wasn’t even doing anything crazy. Literally just reached for my towel in the shower, and then—” She hisses suddenly at the experimental press of his fingertips.

 

He pulls his hands back instantly. “Sorry.”

 

“Fuck, no — that felt _so_ good,” she sighs, not quite able to turn her neck enough to meet his gaze.

 

He’s glad for it, too, because his ears are suddenly on _fire_.

 

He clears his throat, shaking his head slightly as he takes half a step back. Distance — distance is good. “Come on, I’ll take you to a doctor.”

 

“No way,” she says immediately, pivoting slowly on her heel to furrow her brows at him.

 

He sighs in exasperation, planting his hands on his hips. “You know, for a future doctor, you are the most anti-doctor person I’ve ever known.”

 

“Second only to you,” she points out dryly, moving past him to get to the fridge. “I don’t _want_ to go to a doctor, okay? Not for this.”

 

He starts towards her as she carefully eases the fridge door open and retrieves two beers, taking the bottles out of her hands. “Fine. But if it gets any worse, you have to tell me,” he says, opening one of the beers and handing it to her. He yanks slightly on the bottle when she tries to take it, making sure to hold her gaze. “I mean it, Clarke.”

 

“I heard you, Bellamy,” she says, one brow arched in equal parts amusement, irritation and fondness.

 

He doesn’t relinquish his hold on her drink. “ _And_ you’re going to go lie down now and rest up before dinner.”

 

She gives a slight tug on the neck of the bottle. He lets it slip from his fingers — mostly because he’s worried she’ll strain herself further, but she doesn’t need to know that. “Are you through?” She rolls her eyes, turning away with a half-smile on her face. “ _So_ pushy.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t stop hovering all throughout making dinner, coming out of the kitchen every few minutes to bring her a glass of water, change the channel for her (even though the remote’s right beside her, as she points out), fetch her Kindle and sketchbook without her having asked for it (though her tone of surprise is definitely more pleased than exasperated). The pasta ends up slightly overcooked, and he damn near burns the sauce, but he’s just too hopped up on nervous concern to care all that much.

 

He keeps watching her the entire time they’re eating, his eyes sliding to her so often he doesn’t even know what show she’s put on. He tries to hide it, but she rolls her eyes every time she catches him gritting his teeth or pressing his lips in a thin line at the slightest sign of discomfort on her face.

 

For once, she finishes her food before he’s even halfway through. “Are _you_ okay?” she asks teasingly when she notices the amount of food still on his plate, but he’s too busy jumping up to get her another drink to reply.

 

He waves off her attempts to help clear up after dinner, commanding her to go take a hot shower and get into comfortable clothing instead. She rolls her eyes, but trudges obligingly down the hallway while he gathers up the dirty dishes, shooting her stern glares from under his ruffled mop of dark curls.

 

Fifteen minutes later, she pads back into the living room, grimacing as she slowly rolls her shoulder in its socket. She falters ever so slightly at his determined, expectant expression.

 

“Why do I feel like I’m late for some kind of exam?” she asks suspiciously, slowly lowering herself down onto the other end of the couch.

 

He holds up a small tin of all-purpose medicated ointment — left behind by Octavia when she’d moved out, a souvenir from her kickboxing days. “Since you refuse to see a doctor, like a _normal_ person.”

 

“What for? I already have someone who thinks they know better,” she retorts, but there’s no bite to her teasing grin. She sighs at the unrelenting set of his jaw, and turns on the couch to face away from him. “Have at it, Doctor Blake.”

 

He unscrews the tin and dips a couple fingers into the balm, the pads of his fingers already picking up a distinct heat from the jelly-like substance. He faces her, and halts uncertainly. Her hair is already up in a messy bun, but—

 

“Um,” he starts, grunting slightly to clear his throat. “The shirt—”

 

“Oh, right.” Without glancing back at him, she starts undoing the top two buttons of her oversized flannel shirt — an old one of his that she’d stolen months before they’d even moved in together, he doesn’t fail to notice. “Good thing I can’t lift my arms enough for a T-shirt,” she jokes as she pulls the collar of the shirt down, the material stretched around her bare shoulders.

 

He realises it makes perfect sense that she wouldn’t be up to dealing with a bra either. Nonetheless, the freshly revealed expanse of creamy skin makes his mouth go dry.

 

He swallows, kneeling behind her as he rubs his hands together roughly to warm up the ointment — and also to buy himself an extra minute to _get his fucking shit together_. “Let me know if it hurts at all,” he manages, before reaching out to rest his palms on the juncture of her neck and shoulders.

 

He has to physically stop his fingers from clenching when he hears the throaty moan drifting from her lips. “Shit, that’s good,” she breathes, leaning back slightly into his touch.

 

He presses his lips together, trying to ignore the fact that other than putting his hands on her, he _hasn’t even actually done anything yet._ He pushes up higher on his knees and adjusts his hands for a better angle. “Relax, okay?” he says gruffly, before starting to knead gently at her shoulders.

 

It takes all of ten seconds for him to realise he’s fucked.

 

It’s her skin. It’s smooth and pale and unblemished save for the two moles between her spine and shoulder blade, twin spots of soft brown he remembers from whenever she wears spaghetti straps and bikinis. He’s seen Clarke in a lot less than a long-sleeved shirt and shorts, but this somehow feels way, _way_ more intimate than watching her parade around in a little two-piece swimsuit.

 

It’s the way she’s moving with him — leaning pliantly into his hands, idly swaying in sync to the rolling motion of the circles he’s massaging into her shoulders. He appreciates a good massage just as well as the next guy, especially with the amount of time he likes to spend working out. One of his ex-girlfriends even had a thing for rewarding sensual backrubs with blowjobs. But he didn’t think he’d be so gone for _giving_ someone a massage without having something to look forward to in return.

 

Fuck, don’t get him started on the sounds.

 

Oh, the _sounds_.

 

It’s the moans, and the groans, and the sighs, and the little gasps that leave her mouth whenever he hits a particularly good spot, rubbing slowly but deeply into it with his thumb or the heel of his palm. It’s the _oh God’s_ and _fuck yes’s_ and _holy shit’s_ that she’s breathing — no, _panting_ as her head lolls as much as it can with the pain restricting her mobility.

 

She gasps again when his palm digs into a spot at the base of her neck, right beside where the line of her spine runs. One of her hands reaches back blindly, fingers clutching over his jean-clad knee. “Shit, _Bellamy_ ,” she pleads breathily, “there, right _there_.”

 

He swallows and shoves the bombardment of inappropriate urges down as far as he can manage, and pushes up higher on his knees for a better brace on the couch. “Here?” he grits out, grinding the heel of his palm into the spot, her fingers clenching almost painfully into his leg.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” she groans, leaning into the pressure as her head dips back slightly and okay, fuck, that’s a dangerous view down her front even with one of her hands still holding her shirt together over the tantalising swell of her creamy breasts but _not nearly fucking high enough_.

 

Maybe he should just stick his ointment-coated fingers into his eyes. Being blind might just be a preferable alternative to this.

 

He somehow survives the entire ordeal. A quick glance at the clock tells him it’s been just over twelve minutes, and it must be broken because he’s pretty sure it’s been about twelve years of blistering agony.

 

He lingers on her skin, trailing reluctant fingers over the curve of her shoulder in what must look like a very poor attempt at a perfunctory, smoothing once-over. “Okay?” he manages to ask, all too aware of the rough rasp in his own voice. Better than spontaneously combusting into dust, he supposes ruefully.

 

“ _So_ good,” she sighs, arching her back into his light touch — no, he tells himself firmly, she’s just _stretching_. She tugs at her shirt weakly. “Oh my God, Bellamy, that was _amazing_.”

 

He forces a laugh, reaching out to gently pull the flannel up and over her boneless frame. He resists the urge to let his hands rest on her shoulders, not trusting himself to be in the same space as her for one second longer. “Good,” he says, pushing himself off the couch and busying himself with replacing the cap on the ointment tin. “Great. That you feel better, I mean.”

 

She turns slightly on the couch, frowning up at him as her hands do up the buttons of her shirt. “Going somewhere?”

 

_Oh, just leaving before I do something stupid like try to make out with my roommate._ He clears his throat and holds up the tin awkwardly. “Just gonna put this back.”

 

She grins. “Okay. Hurry up so we can watch one of your nerdy documentaries before bed.”

 

He rolls his eyes on pure impulse, shaking his head in feigned exasperation. “You’re mispronouncing ‘utterly fascinating’, princess.”

 

He returns to the living room after a thorough scrub of his hands, having placed the ointment on his nightstand instead of stowing it back in the drawer where he’d found it. His roommate might need it again tomorrow. Or maybe even tonight.

 

He pauses at the threshold, blinking at the dim flicker of the television screen on pause, Clarke’s profile lit only by a single lamp by the couch as she scrolls through something on her phone, a glass of water in her lap.

 

“Come on,” she says without looking up, clicking her phone off and tossing it onto the coffee table. “Or I’m just gonna start without you.”

 

“Yes, because you’re so _eager_ to learn about the fall of the Byzantine Empire,” he returns dryly, crossing over to the couch to settle into one side of it.

 

He watches in silent amazement as she throws a blanket over both their laps and shifts so she’s pressing into his side.

 

“Arm,” she commands, nudging at his elbow.

 

Not quite able to process what’s happening, he lifts his arm and splays it out over the back of the couch. He doesn’t even dare to breathe as she hums contentedly and snuggles into the newly opened up crook, her neck directly supported by his chest.

 

“You should really consider a career change,” she informs him nonchalantly as she hits play on the remote, the opening credits starting to roll. “After that, I seriously feel like I should tip you.”

 

A breathless laugh escapes him while he’s too busy trying to calm his thudding heart. “I’ll start a tab. Or I’ll just cash it in the next time I strain something.”

 

“Done,” she agrees immediately, one hand curling lightly around his outstretched wrist with a little tug, so that his arm ends up wrapped firmly around her. “Now shut up so I can satisfy my raging curiosity about the Byzantine Empire.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Two days later, she makes him lie face down on the couch with his shirt off, sitting astride his hips as her hands work deep circles into his back with the help of a bottle of lotion.

 

Ten minutes later, she’s on her back, legs slinging around his waist to pull him closer as his tongue licks into her mouth. She’s tugging impatiently at the band of his sweatpants as his hands slide under her shirt, but when he feels her lips curve irresistibly wide against his, he can’t help but pause to soak in the moment.

 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he pants when they’re lying naked and spent on her bed, both trying to catch their breaths. “But I really, _really_ don’t feel like I should tip you.”

 

“You should definitely not do that,” she agrees with a fierce grin, rolling over to straddle him again. “Now shut up so you can fuck me again.”

 

He clicks his tongue teasingly as she insistently rocks her hips into his. “ _So_ pushy.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading this even though it's literally just 2k of pure fluff that DIDN'T ACTUALLY NEED TO HAPPEN?!
> 
> thank you if you've left a kudos! virtual backrub for you if you've left a comment because those would REALLY make me and the bitching pain in my neck and shoulder feel much better =) 
> 
> alternatively, come say hi [on tumblr](http://caramellakers.tumblr.com)!


End file.
